"Jules Watson has conjured up the mythic past, a
land of Celtic legend and stark grandeur. Readers
will find her world and characters fascinating and
unforgettable." -Sharon Penman, bestselling author of Devil's Brood

WHITE MARE EXCERPT

The wind drove stinging snow in under Rhiann’s hood, and the ground was like iron, the cold seeping up through her boots.

Ahead loomed the dark gate tower of the Roman fort, and faintly she
made out the shape of a soldier standing on it. When she recognized the
outline of his spear, she suddenly felt desperately alone, and
vulnerable. Would he attack?

At every step she tensed,
waiting to hear that high whine and feel the impact in her chest. Her
palms inside the sheepskin mittens were slick with sweat, and her heart
nearly drowned out the storm itself. But perhaps he could not aim true
in this snow… Yes, surely. And somewhere, not far behind, her own
tribesmen crept with their swords. Somewhere, Caitlin crouched with an
arrow on her bow-string.

The only thing that kept
Rhiann’s feet moving was the knowledge that Eremon was in the enemy
fort, hurt and despairing. She had to do this for him.

That gave her courage, and she warded away the fear and drew her
scattered thoughts deeper in, calming herself with sheer will,
centering her power in the middle of her breast. Beyond the cold and
the screaming wind, she tried to feel the heartbeat of the land.

Somewhere, deep underneath her, it was there. She’d not told Conaire that she didn’t know
if she could do this, if she could reach the Source. If not, she was
the only one in immediate danger. She just had to pray that, if not for
her, the Mother would help Eremon.

Breathe…breathe…there…feel it, wait for it…there.

The throb came once, twice, three times. Now she drew it slowly up her
legs, desperately hoping that she would not lose the thread, letting it
pulse in waves of warmth. You are the tree, came a memory of Linnet’s voice. Your
roots reach down to the Source. The Source is light. Draw it up through
your roots, your legs, and hold it…here…in your heart. First, let it
fill your chest as if it is a pool of light, and the Source is the
spring. When the pool is full, draw it higher. Then, let it fill the
center of your throat, and finally let it rise to the spirit-eye on
your brow. Now you can feel using the Source, you can speak using the
Source, you can see using the Source.

Within the grainy ice and white wind, Rhiann burned.

The man shouted another challenge, and she walked forward. The Source enveloped her with its heat.I am cold, weary, stumbling, she projected toward him. I am alone. He would not hear the words, for they would fall into his heart like stones in a pool. He would only feel their meaning.

The man did not raise his spear to throw it.

Despite the snow, Rhiann nudged her hood back, so her unbound hair fell free. I
am young. I am beautiful. By far the most beautiful thing you have ever
seen. I am a goddess, come to bring you warmth in the endless cold.

The soldier was still, and did not cry out for his comrades. Rhiann
closed her eyes to see with her spirit-eye, and realized he was young,
very young. And transfixed. A glowing ball of light surrounded him as
it did all people. In it, his emotions swirled in bands of red, blue
and violet. She was not strong enough to penetrate that. But she could
sense it.

With her own spirit, she grazed the edge of that light. And something in him reached out for her, urgently. Desire.

“Help
me!” she cried, lifting her hand. She spoke halting Latin; perhaps he
would think her from one of the tribes allied to Rome. Into his heart,
though, she radiated something else. You are weary, too. You are
lonely, and frustrated. It is long since you felt a woman’s skin. Here,
this is the taste, the touch, the smell…remember…

He came forward, gripping the edge of the palisade. “Why are you out here alone?”

She was close enough now to look up at him, and she knew that what
fading light there was would fall on her upturned face. She barely felt
the snowflakes on her skin. His dark eyes gazed down at her from
beneath his helmet. Her other senses felt his breathing catch and grow
faster. Now that she was closer, she could loop her own web of light
around him, snare him in it, bombard his heart from all directions with
a cascade of senses: honey lips, white breast, skin-scent, fingers of
fire, breath-murmur…

It was like the dark energy she had
felt at Samana’s dun. Yet in that moment, Rhiann’s power was stronger,
for it was fuelled by all the love of all those men behind her, for
Eremon. Though they would never know it, right now, the love of
Eremon’s men for their prince fed the Source as it flowed through her.

“Please help me,” she pleaded. “My family was attacked by the northerners and I fled. I’m lost, and cold.” I am harmless. I am alone. I am a woman.

His body-light flared with a last burst of defiance. “You should seek
your own people, girl. This is no place for you.”

“I’ll die in the storm if I go. Please.” If I stand close to you, you will smell the musk of my skin. I am a barbarian woman. My appetites are strong.

She saw him glance nervously over his shoulder.

They
will never know. They left you here, cold and alone. You will show
them. You are a man. I need a man to save me. I will be grateful.

Luckily, he was young and inexperienced, and hadn’t mated with a woman
for many moons. Such glamours could not sway someone’s mind, only
whisper to the urges already there, stirring coals up to fire. Or pluck
at weaknesses, like wind at crumbling stone. She held her breath, and
saw the energy in him wavering. As it did, she put all her effort into
drawing the Source up in one last fountain of white-hot light, and
whirled it at him. The weak resistance shattered and she nearly cried
out with the rush of that power.

He swore softly, and
disappeared. The next moment, beyond the noise of the wind she heard
the faint creaking of the bars in the gate. A black gap opened in the
palisade, and wood scraped over icy stones.

“Come on, then,” the youth murmured. “Be quick about it.”

Rhiann had to put her shoulder to the gap, for he would not open it
wide. And as she did, she locked eyes with him and held him spellbound,
smiling with all the promise she could muster…

…just long
enough to throw her whole weight against the gate, wrenching it from
his hands. Before he could wake himself and leap upon her, a line of
wraiths rose up from the snow-filled ditch, where before there had been
no men at all, and flew at him on padded feet. Rhiann felt the
nightmares of Alban giants and monsters rise up and paralyze the boy’s
voice. A moment later, as she ducked, something whizzed past her ear.
The boy dropped like a felled tree, a white-fletched arrow protruding
from his throat. Without breaking stride, Conaire stepped over the body
and was inside, the other men following silently but swiftly.

Rhiann slumped against the gate and watched the boy’s blood pool on the
icy ground, the snowflakes falling on his upturned cheeks. Mother. The power had receded in a rush, leaving her trembling. Mother, forgive me.
She had brought death. She, a Goddess-daughter, who revered life. And
yet, as she had joined this fight, so she must partake of its
bitterness as well as its triumphs. Eremon would tell her that she had
no choice. But the least she could do for this boy was to accept that
she did have a choice, and had taken it, and blame no one but herself
for what it brought.

She reached down and closed
the boy’s sightless eyes, and left a finger’s caress on his lips as she
heard Caitlin’s slight steps in the snow behind her.

“The
kin bids you farewell,” Rhiann whispered, her tears falling into his
mouth, “the tribe bids you farewell, the world bids you farewell.”

Eremon
lay in the darkness, wrapped in pain. The pain centered around his
chest, where the beating had been worst. Every breath, every expansion
of ribs, was agony. At least he’d stopped feeling his broken fingers.
Here in this end of the barracks it was freezing, and his hands were
bound behind him, cutting off the circulation.

Curled in
a corner, he shut his swollen eyelids and tried to extinguish the
images in his mind: the brightness of their helmets against the snow;
the jeering faces; the hatred in those dark, alien eyes.

It was not like battle, where he locked eyes with an opponent, consumed
with the thrill of pitting himself against an equal. For a moment out
of time, only two existed, sharing heartbeats, sharing breath. Sharing
blood. But to be tied up like some animal, arms pulled back so the
fists could penetrate deeper; to watch a sword-hilt come down on his
fingers, helpless and exposed…A whimper escaped his tightly-closed mouth, and he was flooded with shame. I am a leader. I have courage. I will die with courage.

He did not know why he was not already dead. They must want to send him
to the main camps: any information from the north would be valuable. A
shuddering now took hold of his limbs, and he bit his lip to stop
himself crying out. I will find a way to kill myself. I will do that for Alba.

Conaire
clustered the men under the darkness of the gate tower. Within the
storm, the day had become no more than a dark, featureless stew of grey
cloud, but Conaire’s heart beat clear and slow now, his mind sharpened
with grim resolve.

The open space inside the rampart
held two long buildings. One was dark, and seemed lifeless. From the
other, the nearest one, firelight spilled from a row of small windows.
Every now and then a faint roar of laughter sounded.

“Colum,”
Conaire whispered. “Take five men and surround the door of that
building.” He indicated the dark barracks. “When you hear our attack,
go in with caution. If you meet resistance, deal with it. If you do
not, and Eremon is there, leave two to guard him and the rest come back
and join us.”

Colum took his picked men, and they crept
around the rampart wall. Through the whirling snow, Conaire saw the
dark shapes edging into position. “We have the best odds we’ll ever
see,” he murmured to those remaining. “We’re outnumbered, but I’m
betting they feel safe inside their walls, and won’t have weapons to
hand. We must take three down each.” He paused. “Agricola will know it
was us if they remember our unpainted faces. Leave none alive.”

He eased his sword free, the sound masked by the high keening of the
wind, and slipped across the narrow space between gate and barrack
block, his men following, ducking as they went beneath the windows. In
a moment they were all outside the door, spread along each wall. There,
sheltered from the wind, the sound of talking and laughing swelled.
Peering at the door closely, Conaire saw that it was flimsy — not
designed to keep out anything, except wind.

With tight
lips and a jerk of his head, Conaire got his swiftest fighters into a
tight wedge behind him, as only the first handful would have the
element of surprise, and they must clear a space for the others to
swing. With a quick prayer to the Boar, he tensed back a few steps,
adjusted his shoulder.

And ran.

Like a charging bull, he burst through the door as if it were
brushwood. By the light of fire and lamp, he glimpsed scores of men
lined up on benches and the floor, gaming and drinking. While the
surprise was still dawning on their faces, Conaire, his sword held
two-handed, swept it across the nearest men like a scythe. Screaming,
his warriors charged in after him, laying about them in great circles
of blade. Arms and heads were hewn from living bodies; in moments the
floor was slippery with blood.

Conaire saw the men at
the edges scrambling for their weapons in the farther reaches of the
barracks, and with a roar he cleaved the crowd, cutting a swathe
through those who were ill-prepared, striving to reach those who sought
for arms. Some had their short-swords up by the time he barreled into
them, but he was unstoppable. Fergus and Angus were tight up behind
him; as Conaire drove the wedge, so they had time to swing. He felt the
sting of Roman blades on his arms, but they were just glancing cuts.
His own sword bore them down like a storm wave.

In his head, a litany thrummed. Eremon. Eremon. Eremon.

The litany brought fire to his limbs, the strength to his legs…and at
last it burst from his lips, as he felt the blood-lust bloom in his
chest. The men took up his cry, until among the curses of the Romans
and cries of pain, one name rang to the rafters.

“Eremon!”

As
if waking from a dream, Eremon stirred. There was a noise…something
familiar out there amid the howling wind. He raised his head, though it
rang with dizziness.

The god Manannán. His name. Someone called his name.

Was
it the gods, come to claim him at last? Had he passed over to the
Otherworld? But no: he opened one swollen eye. It was nearly dark now,
but a last drift of light caught on the nubbled plaster of the wall
before him. He was not dead.

“Conaire?” he managed to
croak through cracked lips. The sound faded away in the room. Gritting
his teeth against the pain, he edged himself up the wall, his hands
still bound behind him. He took a deep breath. “Conaire!” he cried,
louder now, hardly knowing why he called, for Conaire was far away.

Though the sound was mewling to his ears, like that of an injured cub,
in an instant the doorway was filled with the dark shadows of men. He
tensed, but had no arms free to lift in his defense.

“My lord,” someone said. It was a language he knew. Words that made sense, at last.

“Boar’s
balls, get your knife,” someone else said, and arms came around him,
cutting his bonds. The blood rushed back to the ends of his fingers,
bringing agony.

Eremon fainted.

At
the edge of the slaughter, Conaire paused and risked a glance back. His
men were fighting in knots all over the room. In the first charge,
perhaps a score of Romans had died, reducing the odds to two to one.
But in such a confined space, with the Roman order in tatters and the
men taken unawares, the odds had become even.

The
strength of the Romans lay in their discipline, so Eremon always said.
Hand to hand, like this, armorless, unprepared, they had only their
brute fighting skills to save them. And Conaire’s men were taller,
heavier. In this they could triumph.

The Roman soldiers
that had not been killed were backed up against the walls, led by
someone who seemed to be their commander, but the Erin men were hacking
their way through their defenses. The room was deep in bodies. Fergus
was just pulling his sword free of a downed man, and with a yell, threw
himself back into what remained of the fray. Angus must still be
fighting in the shadows.

But it was only a matter of
time, now, and they could do without Conaire, at last. So he hurried
back through the splintered door, and across to the other building. Two
soldiers lay dead just inside the doorway, and voices echoed from a
small room at the far end.

Conaire plunged through the
inner door, to be faced with the sight of Eremon laid out on the floor.
He knelt down, thrusting Colum to one side. “Alive?”

“Yes.”

Conaire gathered Eremon in his arms. Though only half-conscious, Eremon
moaned in pain. “Gods,” Conaire muttered. “Rhiann is not far. Find his
horse and pack and follow me. I want him out of here, now!”

Of the journey home, Eremon afterwards remembered little.

He recalled snowflakes falling on his face, and his body shivering
beneath blankets before a tiny fire, which swelled and shrank as he
tried to look at it through half-open eyes. He remembered wafts of
Rhiann’s honey scent, and the thudding of her heart against his ear. He
remembered water being squeezed between his cracked lips, and then warm
broth.

And her voice swam in and out of his mind.

“I’m
giving him as much as I can…it will make him sleep. It’s the only way
for us to travel fast, he’ll be in too much pain otherwise. No, we can
carry him on the horse…it’s only the fingers broken…”

And so it went on for an endless time: the lurching of the horse
beneath him, and the stabs of fiery pain; the cold that crept in under
his furs, clawing at his skin; the wind scouring his face. He burned,
and then he shivered.

“Thank the gods for snow,” came
Conaire's voice from far away. “Our loop would not throw them off for
long.” A rough hand cupped his shoulder.

And sometimes, when the lurching stopped, there would be singing, very soft and close to his ear.